Strawberry Waltz
by Revok
Summary: AU. She infers at this point that Rachel Berry was clearly as rambly and inarticulate as every interview she'd ever seen. Faberry.
1. Chapter 1

_"...and although celebrity Rachel Berry has declined to comment on her sudden break from Broadway, her management will be holding a live press conference tomorrow afternoon. In other news, a disturbance of criminal activity in NY has..."_

A fair skinned girl sits uncomfortably in the diner, the press of fake leather squeaking her discontent as patrons turn to stare; averting their gaze, she peers into her black coffee - the strongest to get her through long days and longer nights - and grumbles nonsense about just having to settle for the little West Village commodity, even if it happens to have the darkest roast coffee and best lethal, coma inducing pastries. A quick glance to her left, and then to her right, reveals much more flannel and metro clothing than usual, and she almost rolls her eyes at how they all seemed to be glued to the tiny television set, practically tearing already at the so-called loss of a star.

She snorts in disagreement, and no one so much as gives her a sideways glance as she stands up and throws a few dollars down, a quarter into the tip jar. It read_ 'all proceeds go to future Hollywood stardom!'_ - and she can't find it in her to blame sweet, owner Jimmy Perkins for being induced into the quiet, yet maddening dream everyone else in the Village seemed to have succumb to - might as well throw a starving dog a bone, right?

As she grabs her bag and heads out into the overcast, gloomy outside world, her teeth clench disapprovingly as_ yes,_ even the goddamn _weather_ seemed to be pissing itself over one girl. For once, the streets are empty, residents either having a late dinner at the trendy little places around open until midnight, or as she reasonably deduced, also feeling as though the sun would never come out again in New York. _Artists, _she thought sardonically.

It's almost a little eerie, actually, so she walks hastily down the streets, even considering paying for a short taxi ride to her apartment. She grunts and lets out an 'oof,' as a soft body collides into her own and is momentarily overwhelmed by the scent of strawberry.

She pulls away a little, rubbing at the sore spot at her temple that will surely leave an embarrassing mark. Her breath catches in her throat as she opens her eyes, which are now treacherously watering at the pain. _God, lady, you've got a head made of iron - _she stops mid thought, blinking as dark eyes look up at her through long lashes.

"Oh, shit! I'm so sorry! Are you okay? I wasn't looking - I mean, God, this place is a ghost town tonight, and I was just, I'm - "

She infers at this point that Rachel Berry was clearly as rambly and inarticulate as every interview she'd ever seen.

"In my way," she narrows her eyes, and the brunette looks taken aback, "Clearly."

"Sorry," the starlet half whispers, gaze darting around nervously for - what the other can only assume - paparazzi on the hunt. For a second, she takes in Rachel's appearance: her clothes are windswept, and she seems jumpy, fidgety even, probably lurking about the Village like a lost puppy away from its handlers. _Figures._

It's enough to make her stumble over a scathing remark, her "yeah, whatever" coming out much more of a mumble than a scowl.

"Can I do anything? I could take a cab with you to the hospital - "

"And see my face plastered over the newspaper tomorrow morning? Yeah, sounds perfect," she interrupts, frowning. Rachel squares her shoulders, though, and prepares herself.

"Well, I can't just let you walk off by yourself, you're clearly dazed, and if you have a concussion that would be an unbearable weight on my conscience," she says matter of factly, and the blond stares. _Really?_

"We bumped heads, and since yours seems to be made of rock and you're okay - I'll be just fine."

"But I'd feel much better if I could at least take you home and make sure."

The throbbing of her head, she wants to say, is probably more due to Rachel's interference than the initial crash collision, but all she does is shake her head.

"I'm not going to sue you."

"That's not my concern."

Her jaw tightens; that's right, Rachel _freaking_ Berry wouldn't have to worry about anyone starting up a lawsuit against her. There was no denying a flurry of lawyers would get her out of it, because if OJ could do it, so could Rachel. Probably with more press, too.

"If I let you take me home, will you and your insufferable big head promise to leave me be?"

"Of course."

"Then call the goddamn cab," she mutters, and it's all the cue the other girl needs as she hails a cab - surprisingly fast, where the hell were they when _she _needed them? - and even goes as far as to open the door for her first. She resists the urge to roll her eyes again, judging Rachel she'd probably think she was going faint. Before she can comment a few twenties are slipped into the driver's passenger seat, for sake of anonymity, because resident concerned overachiever just _has_ to sit so close and hover.

"Where to...?" she trails off brightly, realizing a little late she had never gotten the stranger's name.

"Augustine street."

"And your name?" Rachel implores, not catching the hint.

"Quinn Fabray."

"Well," Rachel starts, smiling, and Quinn just can't understand what this girl doesn't get about personal space, "I'm - "

"Rachel Berry," she mumbles, "Yeah, I know."

_Part time actress and singer, full time heart breaker._

Quinn shifts her gaze to the window, eyes clouding over, away from the familiar stranger who's eyes she can feel on the back of her head.

_I know._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Every time I get a notice of a story alert/author fave/review, I smile. Not gonna lie. Thanks everyone.

Rachel Berry doesn't do silence, even for clinically aggravated and mildly injured blonds.

"So _Quinn_ - "

"Berry," Quinn cuts the girl off for the seventh time, the ache in her head now a dull throb as she glances out the window to see how close they are to her apartment, "you've asked me my favorite Broadway number, my complete critique on Barbra Streisand, and whether or not I think High School Musical is the biggest travesty of an imitation to theater." She waits a beat, ensuring the brunette is listening. "I don't _care._ Theater can kiss my ass."

The resultant gasp makes her wonder vaguely if justifiable murder would be too much of a stain on her record.

"_Quinn!_" Rachel starts, scandalized, and Quinn can hardly pay attention because it's like the girl just can't stop saying her name with emphasis, like she _knows_ her. She hardly catches the star's incessant, unrelenting speech of her unappreciated art or whatever.

"...just simply cannot comprehend on what factual basis how you can so offensively object the arts, especially considering I am, factually, an icon of sorts." There is no boast or arrogance to her tone, merely statement, like there's no arguing against it, and somehow it irritates her more.

"Well, I guess that explains what I think of you, now doesn't it?"

For once, Rachel is silent.

She ignores the pang deep in her chest that says she's sorry. She's not.

The rest of the cab ride is long and painfully quiet.

She doesn't talk as Quinn steps out of the car and into the now darkened streets, but watches. The tension falling from her shoulders tells her the rented little place has been claimed her haven for quite awhile.

Rachel hesitates for a moment, just a moment, before thanking the cab driver in a rush of words before exiting the vehicle, walking behind the taller girl. She turns around slowly, key halfway turned into the lock, raising eyebrows at the brunette.

"The crime right here, uh, rose," she mumbles, the epitome of inarticulate and that's just _weird,_ because when has she ever been at a loss for words? Rachel shakes herself mentally. "I just want to check you have adequate first aid, should I be liable for legal responsibility involving leaving a concussed civilian in a dangerous environment. I'll take my leave soon thereafter." She hopes Quinn doesn't comment the fact the cab has long driven off, for the sake of excuses. She hopes Quinn does comment, for the sake of the child in her that just wants to _run, run, run,_ from this unkind stranger.

Mercifully, Quinn just nods and invites her in, closing the door behind them.

The house, for all intents and purposes, is small, but there are noticeable attributes of home that just reach out to Rachel, something warm and comforting about the place that seems - however much the opposite of the resident living here - just welcoming.

Which is why she doesn't understand when they're barely inside the doorway and Quinn throws her arm back to keep her in place, the rigid posture exuding from her making her blink in confusion.

"Quinn, just what are you - "

"Shut _up,_ Berry," she hisses with the same aggravation shown earlier tonight, but there's a worried edge to it that Rachel picks up on.

She places her keys on the front desk, motioning her to stay behind but close, enough that her heartbeat isn't thrumming away in anxiety _for Rachel._ If the situation at hand weren't so serious, Quinn thinks she might puke at her own feelings. Rounding the corner into the living room, she's met face to face with a wooden baseball bat, causing Rachel to scream (on pitch even, of course she would, Quinn winces) with enough force to rattle her eardrums.

"_Fuck,_ quiet down!" the dark haired girl steps back and sets the bat aside, grimacing, "I heard more than pair of footsteps and I thought - well, it's just you, anyway." She huffs, then glances to the figure behind Quinn. "Jesus Christ, is that...?"

"No questions, San. I didn't think you'd be home early." Quinn rolls her eyes, glancing behind as well to look at the celebrity in their midst, "I thought you came to make sure I was okay, not deafen me in one ear."

Rachel blushes unabashedly. "Well, _you_ made it sound like there was a break in," she defends herself, crossing her arms.

"Which is what I honestly thought, Berry, considering we're not exactly in Tinseltown," replies Quinn dryly, shrugging her jacket off and draping it over the couch, "but no, no intruder. Just my good for nothing roommate."

"I'm right _here,_ you know."

"How could I forget, you inhale half the food I buy - "

"- because you never finish, which I guess is something I can apply to other - "

"Lopez, do you _really_ want to finish that sentence?"

An audible clearing of a throat makes the two snap away from their petty argument, both turning to look at Rachel. The flush on her cheeks is still present, and Quinn can't help but focus on that, the rosy tint to her complexion highlighting her odd fidgeting. "Right, well, I _am_ here to check up on your head, so if you'll lead me to the bathroom I'll be suited to tend to you faster, and I can leave you to your, uh, girlfriend," she finishes awkwardly, averting eyes. She can't deny there isn't some very present tension between the two of the sexual demeanor, but the thought still leaves a prickle of discomfort somewhere low in her stomach.

Immediately, indignant yells explode throughout the room, and it takes Quinn punching her friend in the arm to cease fire.

"Santana and I are in no way, shape, or form, dating," she snorts as if she's offended, but she really doesn't want Rachel to get the wrong idea. Because Rachel would probably send them like, a fruit basket on Valentines Day or something, and she just wants to clear the air is all.

"Santana Lopez doesn't date, period," smirks the Latina, but at Quinn's vicious glare she tones the arrogance down just a little bit, "I mean, yeah, what Fabray said." Truth, she and Quinn _did_ have a thing, like, _ages_ ago - but it was all physical, and stuff like that burns out. They were much better off as friends. She takes in Rachel's other comment, though, and adds, "You're gonna need some pretty strong medication to take care of Fabray's kind of crazy, though. I'll get the taser. Electroshock therapy should do it."

"I hit my head, dumbass." Quinn frowns.

"_Oh._ Oh," Santana frowns also, "well, there went my plans. Down the hall, first door on the left, Broadway."

With that, she turns away from the two disinterestedly, done picking on her best friend for the moment and unimpressed by theater royalty in their presence, flopping herself onto the couch as she reaches for the remote to begin channel surfing. Besides, Quinn's coherent enough to throw a vehement, angry look in her direction as she's being led down the hall by Rachel, so she figures her head's just fine, visible bump or not.

Santana also figures Quinn thought the other would rescue her from Rachel Berry, but it's been awhile since she's had any _real_ entertainment - the police department got all the action - and it's exactly the reason to settle herself into the couch and await the earthquake coming.

Quinn was old enough to stop running from natural disasters, anyway.

"Why does Santana have a taser?"

The question is met, for the first time in her presence, by a responding chuckle from Quinn.

"San's a security guard," she rolls her eyes, but the affection is barely veiled in her tone,"or was, I should say. Worked for this big time bank, total hot shot owner (can't tell you who, though, you know) and it brought good money. Quit on the spot, just like that, when she pieced the clues together and saw he was cutting profit for himself. The taser was a part of the uniform, and I guess she kept it." Quinn grins. "Morally upright bitch."

"Oh," she says, as she's still fumbling around the bathroom for the kit while Quinn sits leisurely on the counter aside the sink, "who does she work for now?"

Rachel's surprised again that her inquiry - more for small talk to fill the silence than anything else - is met with a laugh. She decides she likes it.

"No one," answers Quinn, and the glint of humor is still evident in her eyes, "Why? Paparazzi too much for you, Berry?"

Narrowed eyes meet hazel as Rachel finally procures the first aid kit, scoffing haughtily in response. She busies herself preparing the cotton ball with a bit of rubbing alcohol, because aside from the bump on Quinn's head there's a bit of a shallow scratch there, too.

"I didn't know being fawned on by every newspaper in the city was so hard," she presses on, baiting the other girl.

She can't help but interject at that. "I'm not fawned on by _everybody,_" Rachel disagrees, using her free hand to brush Quinn's hair out of her face as she surveys the cut. "Though I am impressive enough to warrant it. Now hold still, you miscreant."

Quinn shakes her head, the smirk fading from her lips as she, at the very least, listens and doesn't move any more. There's no way an audible curse doesn't slip from her mouth as the rubbing alcohol cleans away the dried blood, the stinging sensation causing her to make a face.

Though she freezes instantly, however, at Rachel tossing the cotton away and leaning in to blow a cool, soothing breath over her now burning skin. She's feeling warm all over and the other girl's just much too close, and was it just her or did the bathroom suddenly get a _whole lot smaller, _because this is _absurd,_ okay, she's an _adult_ for crying out loud so blushing like a god damned schoolgirl is just ridiculous to even consider and -

"There. All better."

She has to take a few seconds properly ensure her lungs are in working order, because Rachel's all sorts of oblivious as she puts the kit away with no indication that the blond is really all not that far from possibly hyperventilating. Rachel's now helping Quinn down from the counter with a gentle tug at her hand, and _what_ they're holding hands now, and all she can think is that she so did _not_ agree to this.

But her panic fades to an internal whine of protest as Rachel lets go a half second later, the sway of her hips guiding her back into the living room.

She can still feel Rachel's hand on her face, her hand, _everywhere._

Santana's still on the couch by the time the two enter the room, and Rachel shifts from one foot to another as she realizes Quinn is probably waiting for her to announce her departure. Right.

"Well, I guess that's it, then," she begins, and Quinn is privately thanking every deity up above for the end of Rachel's appearance, "It was nice - "

"Puckasaurus Rex has arrived and has brought the goods, ladies!" There's a moment's pause. "And yo, you should really start locking the front door, but I got it covered this time."

Quinn is now considering becoming atheist as a broad shouldered man enters the room, brown bagging what she can only reasonably assume to be liquor, Mickey's chili cheese fries, and more liquor; it was pretty much his staple on food, since fries were made out of potatoes and he had long proclaimed it counted as his daily serving of vegetables. She's also wondering if it would relieve her of any guilt associated with murder, because she's pretty sure his eyes did a double, and then a triple, take at Rachel in their living room.

"Whoa, regulation hottie, sup?" he drawls, setting the bags down as he extends a hand at Rachel, "Noah Puckerman, at your _service,_ babe. And you're-?"

"Leaving," Quinn answers before Rachel can, temporarily glad that Puck only paid as much attention to celebrities as to who was taking their top off for Playboy that week. He frowns quizzically, though, but before he can open his mouth, Santana interrupts from her seat on the couch.

"Not," she declares, making Rachel blink in surprise (Santana had caught the flash of hurt at Quinn's immediate brush off) and Quinn scowl; the Latina looks over at her, looking, well, not quite _friendly,_ but close enough. "You drink, Broadway?"

To be completely truthful, Rachel's only ever had kosher wine at Jimmy Fischer's bat mitzvah when she was like, fifteen.

But to be completely _fair,_ Quinn wasn't right to dictate her around - this was Santana's place too, anyway, right?

"Yeah," she lies smoothly, smiling at the girl, "Yeah, I drink some."

"Excellent," Puck beams, wrapping an arm around her waist, entirely innocent for the time being as he strides over to Santana, who's now setting up shots on the coffee table right in front of the couch. There's no doubt he loves his routine Friday nights with his two hottest, yet completely _uninterested_ (somehow, he's still not sure how that works) friends, but new meat was hard to resist. "Let's do this."

Quinn can only watch as her past and present life begin to collide as Rachel starts up conversation with Puck and Santana.


End file.
